Month: July 2016

After my monumental realization in therapy (that I really do live in my pain – no matter how much I tell myself I don’t. I fucking do. The dream I had couldn’t have been more clear about that) this past week, something shifted. I feel different. I feel less restricted somehow. My day in day out routine feels less like a chore and more like living. I haven’t felt the heaviness of addiction in a few days. It’s been pleasantly quiet in my head. I also haven’t felt the pure need to drink/eat myself away.

It’s kind of amazing how addiction and dependence on something else really tries to trick you into thinking that your life is a complete mess when it’s really, truly, definitely not. The warped thinking is what fascinates and terrifies me the most. The mindset of addiction is the true killer. Nothing will change as long as your brain is telling you that you need the drink or drug or food or sexual partner or lottery ticket or whatever to survive. As long as your brain is pumping out the untrue slogans of ‘YOU NEED TO DRINK’ or ‘THERE’S NO WAY YOU CAN LIVE WITHOUT BOOZE’ or ‘IT’S TOO HARD; YOU DESERVE A BREAK, TAKE A SIP’ the truth doesn’t stand a chance.

The more I’m examining this problem of mine and reading about it (I just tore through Lit by Mary Karr. Fantastic read), the more I’m learning that my mental state is mostly the culprit. The thoughts I have and messages (most laced with negativity, denial and self-hatred, Awesome) I send to myself are the bulk of what’s been holding me back and keeping me wrapped up in my security blanket of addiction. The past 18 years of my life featured some deep lows, there’s no denying that. My spirit was broken down and splintered and I lost track of who I am many times. That’s all I could focus on. I was hurt and tired and scarred and no one could possibly understand what it was like for me – or so I told myself. I began licking my wounds – it became my favorite pastime. And then, my mind got stuck on repeat and the rest of me didn’t realize that all I had to do was press ‘play’ again to allow forward momentum.

So simple.

I think that weird, humid, jarring dream was a gateway. It was a way to press ‘Play’ again. It was a way to remember that when I am feeling familiar emotions that lead me to feel trapped or low or misunderstood or tragic I don’t have to choose to stay with those feelings. I don’t have to wander around in the dark with them, searching for an answer to why it huuuuuuurts so much. I don’t even have to pick them up. I can simply acknowledge the pain, honor the fact that it happened and that it exists and then, I can walk away. I can leave it be. I can allow myself to be free from the pain. I can. And I have been able to sit with that idea for the past 4 days and let me tell you, I can breathe. I can stand tall. I can smile and feel whole. I can look ahead with a sparkle in my eye. I fucking can.

Holy Fuck. Revelation Personified. I swear to God.

I have found myself defaulting into my pain a few times since having the dream. The familiar lump in my throat rises (as it is right now thinking about my tricksy little Precious), my shoulders rise and tense and I take a sharp breath in, immersed in the toxic thrill of feeling shit that needs to be put down. Immediately. Yesterday. Better yet, it needed to be put down last year.

And you know what, it’s ok that I haven’t figured out a way to leave well enough alone. I’m actually starting to feel deeply at peace with where I have been. You know why? It’s because something shifted. Something clicked. I don’t want to numb myself. I don’t want to miss out on my life because the propaganda that’s on loudspeaker in my head is telling me I can’t or don’t deserve to or that everything is too hard or that I’m too FAT, too broken, too much of a lost cause. I don’t want the best times to fly by me because I was too self-involved and tragically wandering to see it all.

My daily drinking is a first class ticket to missing everything I want to see, experience and feel. I don’t want to end up paying for something I never had any intention of buying in the first place.

I want to find myself again (I’m already on my way).

I want to give myself a hug.

I want to look into whatever version of my eyes that are hurting the most (17 year old Annie, most likely) and tell myself, ‘You’ve always been enough, sweet, sweet girl. Always. All you have to do is believe it.’

So. I had a session with my therapist today and she (as per usual) had some fantastic nuggets of wisdom for me. I read ‘Visiting Day’ to her. Her immediate question when I finished was, ‘Does the pain really still feel that big to you, even now?’ My answer was, ‘Yes.’ I wish my answer was something different, but as of today, it’s not.

I then told her about a dream I had the night before I wrote the post. In it, I was walking through a huge parking lot. A Target style lot. Rows and rows of empty spaces on either side of me. The air was humid, saturated with moisture and very close. My clothes clung to me like barnacles. I was pushing an overloaded shopping cart. I had no idea what was in it, only that it was cumbersome, heavy and difficult to navigate. I was trying to get to my car as quickly as I could because of the heat. I loathe the heat. But because of the damn cart I wasn’t covering any ground. It was almost like the pavement was half melted and the wheels of the cart were forever getting stuck, twisted and off course.

I glanced behind me and saw a group of five 13 or 14 year old boys following me. They had an intense ‘Lord of the Flies’ energy about them; all charged up on primal testosterone-fueled anger. Their faces may have even been painted and they were literally carrying spears. They were gaining on me because of my snail-like pace. I could have left the cart and started to run. This idea didn’t occur to me. I just dug in my feet and continued to push. Before I knew it, the leader of the pack starting whooping, ran at full speed toward me and smacked me square on the ass – HARD. He said, ‘Get the FUCK out of here!!’ I felt the slap, but not in the good way. It Hurt. And then I woke up.

I didn’t think of it again until I was in session with my therapist today. Right away, she knew what the dream was trying to slap me (literally) with. The pack of boys represented my brother and his tumultuous existence. Their anger was Tom’s anger. It was my anger too. All my anger directed at myself. She reasoned that the parking lot represented my pain. Big. Suffocating. And she went further still saying that the boys were trying to literally kick me out of my pain. They wanted me Gone from that giant lot. Disappeared. Never to return. It was like they wanted to be left there in peace. I had been overstepping my welcome for far too long and they were just plain done with me. Done.

And holy shit. The boys in my dream and my therapist were both SO right. I feel this pain of mine too much. I turn it over and over in my hands. I gaze at it. I worship it. My Precious.

Putting the tribe of boys in my dream together with what’s been going on in my life, (e.g., drinking daily, not exercising, feeling stuck as fuck) was exactly what I needed. My eyes opened and it clicked – I’m stuck in my pain. I’m addicted to my pain. It’s like I’ve been laboriously pushing that damn cart up and down the rows, looking for a car that isn’t there (and probably never was) since 1997. It’s a fruitless and tremendously exhausting endeavor, one I’ve been trying to perfect for years.

And I don’t have to stay stuck there. I can give up the search for my non-existent vehicle and simply walk away. First I have to let go of the shopping cart. That has to stay in the lot. I know it.

All I have to do is….Let………Go.

It’s so simple.

Mindfulness and awareness have always been my biggest allies. Both have helped me immensely to foster change in my thinking and behaviors in the past. Remaining aware and mindful is where I struggle; it’s oh so easy to fall off the wagon.

But nowadays I have a blog. I can come back to this and re-read it any time I need a reminder of what I already know. I have friends who check in and can help me remain accountable and blissfully aware. I do not have to do this alone. That’s one prime piece of knowledge I want to remain especially mindful of.

I have so many thoughts and emotions skittering around in my head today, so hang in there with me if this post turns out to be really scattered and/or emotional as fuck.

I sit here, in a blissfully air conditioned Starbucks eavesdropping on a couple behind me who are clearly on a first date after connecting on an online site and while I’m amused and inwardly smiling at their banter and completely feel their awkward pain, I’m also feeling incredibly adrift in a sea of emotions. Most of the things I’m feeling are familiar. Most are old hat. I know them well, I have walked these halls before; I know what the fuck I am doing in them. But there’s so many offshoots in the halls and I can’t decide where to go. I’m feeling lost today. That’s what I don’t know what to do with. I’m basically overwhelmed. And triggered. Triggered like whoa.

I’ve been reading up a lot on other women’s journeys through their drinking days and how they proceeded bravely into sobriety. I am deeply envious of these women. I am truly inspired by their courage and dedication to living again. I read their words, feelings and experiences and I am in awe. How do they do it? How did they dig deep enough? How?

I know it’s coming – my own sobriety. I know it’s going to happen for me, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to write the way I have been. I would avoid the subject of my drinking like the plague that it is. Also, I would still be going out all the time, drinking myself blind and making out with married men. Yup, I’ve done that a few times. Get me drunk enough and I have no regard for another woman’s vows or security in her marriage. I want what I want in the moment. Consequences be damned. Her husband is the one out late with a strange woman. The problem lies in his decisions, not mine. Right? Right?

Obviously, I am wrong to think this way. However, that’s usually the booze talking. It’s not really who I am at my core. If I was sober I wouldn’t think or do things like I just described. I am a good person. I have things to contribute to this life. I want to do more than drink and think and bemoan and drink and overthink and lose myself. I want to do more than numb and actively avoid feeling anything and wonder why it’s so fucking hard for me to simply live and be. I don’t want to stay drowning in the stew of my emotions. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.

Why isn’t the fucking fact that I don’t want this to be my life enough to make me stop? Why can’t I just let go? I suppose the answer to that is simple; I’m holding on to it. This habit that helps me not feel. I’m holding onto it like a little girl with her security blanket who is spending the night away from home for the first time. Terrified to let go. I’m still holding onto the lies the booze tells me. I’m still adhering to the horrible and sometimes horrifying inner dialogue of my overtired mind and living according to what it says (You’re too FAT. You’re worthless. You’re disgusting. You’ll never be able to get through this. Your life is meaningless. Even your friends hate you now. You’ve pushed them away and you have No One. You should just fucking end it.)

Mostly I’m scared. That’s basically the bottom of the barrel. I’m scared. The fear makes me think these things. The fear keeps me in the bubble of not wanting to live without alcohol. It’s quite the cycle I have going for myself. Quite.

But that’s ok. I’m not upset with myself for being scared as I normally would be. I’m adjusting to the fear. I’m trying to settle down with it, to go with it. The energy it takes to go against it is tremendously draining. So, more and more I’m looking at my fear. The more I do that, the more I see that letting fear run the show is the silliest solution I could have ever come up with. C’mon woman! Get your head in the game. You matter. You are important to everyone but yourself. Stop that! Stop devaluing yourself because of your past! Just stop. Change your ways, change your thinking, change your life. Let’s fucking go!

Yes.

My sobriety is on its’ way. I feel deeply and I think too much. These two things have always been my downfall. I’ve always allowed the things that have happened to me to write my story. I’ve let the hard times design the landscape of my life. I can’t allow that to happen anymore. I have to get on my team. I have to be on my side. I have to take care of myself first. If I don’t, I will be – and, sadly, have started to become – absolutely no good for anyone.

Hands down, this has been true of my life experiences. Everything I have been through has in some way, felt like either Too Fucking Much or Never, Ever Enough. Where did the happy medium go? Whatever happened to balance? Sometimes I think that I never learned how to balance. I never learned to pace myself.

Once I found something that helped me feel less unsure, less lost, less neglected that was it. I wanted that thing over and over. I would consistently search for whatever high I had managed to find the previous time. I felt alive when I could feel that high. It awakened a need within me and I began an endless search for something else to make me feel like my life was worth something.

A sugar high from candy when I was growing up; the very first signs of my addictive personality. Or when I was in my early 30s, it might be a self-esteem high from winning the temporary and extremely drunken affections of a stranger in my bed. Feeling a man’s body poised over mine, about to enter me gave me a thrill I didn’t think was possible.

And nowadays I’m chasing the perfect floaty, fizzy, tipsy feelings of my 3rd or 4th glass of wine. I feel giggly, worthwhile, sexy and exciting when the wine is invading my bloodstream. I feel tremendously invincible. I don’t feel like anything bad will happen for maybe 15 minutes and then reality inevitably pokes her head through the curtain to remind me that it’s almost bedtime because I’m an adult and I have responsibilities and I have things I have to do other than drink and fuck and eat.

Sometimes I’m glad to hear from reality. Sometimes I’m grateful that I still remember to keep my head on straight and to keep my shit together. Most times actually. More and more as of late I would rather have a clear head. But sometimes I don’t want to fucking hear it from her anymore. Reality is such a bitch and she always wins. No matter what. Sometimes I just want to stay and stay and stay in the haze of floaty, fizzy and tipsy until I forget where I’ve been and who I am becoming. But the longer I stay the more dangerous it will become. Addiction is progressive. Alcoholism is progressive. Over time, you start to need more and more than you used to just to feel a slight, tiny, miniscule buzz. As the great sage and eminent junkie Axl Rose once sang, ‘I used to do a little but a little wouldn’t do it so the little got more and more. I just keep trying to get a little better, said a little better than before.’

This shit is real. This addiction is happening. It has been for most of my life. But I swear to God, the more I talk about it here, the more I know someone else is reading what I have to say, the less this fucking rope around my neck is squeezing the life out of me. It’s loosening. It’s beginning to slip. And I couldn’t be more grateful for that.

‘In spite of this problem (my struggles with addiction), I deeply and profoundly love, respect and accept myself.’

It was suggested to me by my therapist to repeat this mantra to myself out loud. She stressed the importance of saying it out loud. By using my mouth to shape the words and actually hear my voice saying the statement, she hoped that something would click so that maybe, just maybe the meaning will stick in my mind and I will believe it.

I have trouble accepting myself. I think a good portion of my ‘stuckness’ around self-acceptance comes from being adopted. I never felt connected to my family while I was growing up. I always wondered where I came from and who made me. However, my parents didn’t use the word ‘adoption’ and they never asked me how I felt about it. I took their lack of openness as shame. I thought they were embarrassed that they had to adopt me. I followed their lead and never spoke about it either. I felt ashamed that I wasn’t truly theirs and I never learned how to talk about it because we didn’t have a dialogue.

I adopted ‘adoption’ as a form of protection. If I kept myself apart by being ‘adopted’ then the confusion and emptiness I felt about my parents’ assumed shame wouldn’t hurt as much. I would think to myself, ‘no one understands me, it must be because I’m adopted.’ Within that word I was safe. Underneath that label I was able to drift away and not feel anything because I had a built-in excuse. I would think, ‘I’m adopted, you’ll never understand who I am or how I feel.’

But now that I’m an adult, I actually found a dialogue about adoption with my mother (and oh my God was I wrong about her feeling ashamed of me. As far as she is concerned, I have always simply and completely been hers) and with that came the ability and courage to actually find my birth parents. I met them. I spent time with them. I met 2 of my 4 half siblings. I hugged my birth mother and my birth father. I engaged with them. I learned from them and discovered with them. Then I lost them to each other (I’ll get into the belly of that beast at some point down the road, I promise). And now, I don’t have anything left to protect myself with. I don’t have the armor I’ve always worn with some sort of backwards pride because ‘adopted’ doesn’t really apply anymore. Sure, that’s how I started my life, but it will not be how I continue or end it.

Now I’m wondering how I’m going to define myself as I move forward. I’m not the tragically lost ‘adopted’ girl anymore. I’ve grown up. I’ve evolved and I am a woman, standing on my own two feet in spite of all the problems that afflict me. I am stumbling, but I’m still fucking walking forward. I’m still excited for my future. I still feel joy and hope in my heart when I think about what my life will look like when I deeply and profoundly love, respect and accept myself (and when I fully immerse myself in recovery). As of today that love, respect and acceptance is not bone deep. And that’s ok. I’m not perfect, but I do love myself. I just need to allow some more healing around that particular area.

With every passing day it gets easier.

With every post that flows out of me like water it gets more clear that in writing in this candid, revealing fashion, I am doing nothing but loving myself.

He hadn’t been living with my parents and I for a few years. He wasn’t around much during my adolescence. He ran away a lot. He bought and sold drugs. He tried to kill himself. He spent a lot of time in group homes or juvenile detention centers. In the last few years of his life he was living with his girlfriend. When he did manage to make an appearance at the old colonial farmhouse we grew up in it was always because he needed something.

That day he needed money. I knew he needed money. He came sweeping into the kitchen, cool as a cucumber, ‘where’s mom?’

‘Out’, my curt reply. I was so mad at him. He had caused so much pain and never given anything back. I hated him for leaving me alone with my parents and sick grandmother. I hated him for taking my parents’ attention away from me when I needed it too. I hated him for being so fucking selfish and never asking me how I was. I hated him. I hated myself for hating him.

He showed me his new piercing. Tongue. It looked like a wad of raw hamburger; slick, swollen and red. ‘Wow, gross.’ My second short reaction to my big brother who used to have nothing but my worship when I was really little. Even though I was angry at him and didn’t know how to love him, I was really happy to see him. He would always be my cool big brother. Oh, how I wanted, needed his attention. God.

He shuffled his feet and looked toward the door, ‘Will you tell mom to call me? I need to ask her something.’

‘Sure,’ I said. I watched as he angled his body toward the porch without looking back at me.

‘See you later.’ His last words to me. Ever. I nodded and silently flipped the bird at his back.

I watched him walk back to the car idling in the driveway, his friend who drove him smoking a butt. I could see sweat beaded on his forehead as he sank into the passenger seat. The door slammed with a finality I didn’t yet understand. The car backed up, drove down the dirt packed driveway. Out of my life. Forever.

That was the last time I saw Tom. He died in a car accident the next day, along with another young man. The person driving the car wasn’t drunk or high. Just irresponsible and reckless. Going around a hairpin curve at 70 miles an hour can take lives.

19 years.

I used to think that this pain would go away. I used to assume it wouldn’t hurt as much as it once did. But that’s just not the case. On days like today, when my dreams feature him and his ghost feels so near, the pain is as big as it was back then. The loss doesn’t go away. The grief doesn’t leave. It never, ever stops hurting. All you get is distance from the pain. Sometimes it’s across the country. Sometimes it’s a block away. Other times it’s sleeping in bed with you. And others still it’s in your fucking blood.

Today is one of those times for me. I can hear the songs played at his funeral mass, ‘Fur Elise’ and ‘Every Breath You Take’ as covered by Puff Daddy. I can smell the flowers at his funeral and see the white roses of my ‘sister’s bouquet’ perched amongst the arrangements. I can hear the young girl asking my mother to open his casket so she can see him one last time. I can feel my mother’s kind reaction as she soothes a stranger while her son lies dead 5 feet away. I can feel the humidity of the July air as we buried him. All of it happening in my head in vivid living color.

It will pass. It will lessen. Soon, the pain will click its’ dusty bootheels on the pavement, steadily moving away from me…but it will always come back for a visit. Always.

I took a long walk today. I haven’t done that in far too long. There’s a nice little park near my house that has a paved loop to walk on. It’s lovely and lots of people walk their dogs there so I get to people and puppy watch. Double threat. I don’t take advantage of it as much as I would like to, but today it was calling to me. So, when I woke up, I hopped out of bed, ate some breakfast, strapped on my sneakers, threw my hair in a ponytail and I was out the door. The weather was perfectly agreeable for an outdoor walk – nice and mild, cloudy and not overly hot. I was really excited.

I started walking the loop and felt an inner calm wash over me again and again. I smiled at the people I saw. I smiled at the babies in strollers. I even got a little manhandled by a passing husky. He was about 120 pounds and had muddy paws. I got a pawprint stamped across my left breast as he jumped up to lick my chin. No bother, I just laughed, wished his owner a lovely day and walked on.

When I take walks outside I always feel free. I feel like my breathe comes easier and my mind feels more clear. My entire body knows there is actually room to breathe and responds in kind by releasing endorphins. I feel good when I’m out like that. I don’t get out enough. I don’t put myself out there enough. And today, I realized what that reason is….fear. Plain old stupid FEAR.

I’m scared to be out in public sometimes. I assume and believe that other people judge or hate me because I am overweight – or as my 17 year old self would say, because I am FAT, disgusting and worthless. I hesitate to participate in my own life because when I step outside my comfort zone I leave myself vulnerable to judgment. What I forget is most people are wrapped up in their own agendas, worries and fears. Why would perfect strangers take time out of their own thoughts and plans to silently and hatefully judge the overweight woman in her 30s who is walking along, minding her own business? And even if they do, their judgment or distaste has nothing to do with me and everything to do with them. Why do I think they even care what they think? Could it be that I’m a little narcissistic, yes? Or, it could be that I’m hyper aware of my body shape and I’m overly ashamed of it. I think I deserve others’ judgment somehow. I deserve to be hated because I am disgusting. I am FAT.

Well, so fucking what? Lots of people weigh more than they want to. Lots of people aren’t perfect physical specimens. I’m not alone in this. I’m not the only one who is tragically unhappy with her body. I’m not the lone FAT girl in a sea of skinny ladies with perfect, undimpled, unstretched skin. I put so much of my value into the minds of other people. My confidence lives in the supposed judgment of strangers. It’s ludicrous. It’s a completely insane thought pattern that keeps me prisoner.

But I had a freeing moment on my walk today….

I usually wear baggy tops or hoodies when I walk or workout. I can’t stand the thought of someone else seeing how out of shape my body is, so I hide it. Hoodies are the best because they are meant to cover. Unfortunately, it’s summer (my least favorite season because the weather requires me to wear less clothing….) so a hoodie is out of the question. I had to wear a t-shirt today. It would have been too hot otherwise.

So, I’m walking along and a breeze starts blowing in my face, cooling the sweat. Lovely. The breeze also pushes my t-shirt against my entire front, putting my misshapen, roll-filled body on display. Unacceptable. I normally lift my hands up and pretend I’m adjusting my top to cover myself and avoid prying eyes seeing anything I can’t bear them to see. But today, for maybe the first time ever, I thought, ‘why am I making myself do this every single time? This is silly. I deserve to walk comfortably. Who gives a fuck what this passing person thinks of my body?’ And I kept my arms by my sides and walked along. Head high, looking at the trees and smiling.

I felt free of my own destructive Inner Dialogue for the first time in years. And it didn’t matter what the passersby thought because I was gone from their view in seconds. And I felt good. I felt confident. I felt at home within myself.

My drinking pattern seems to go through phases. Sometimes all I can think about during the day is when I can leave work, walk in the door at home and pour. And once I’ve poured all I can think about is when I get to do it again so I can feel that unaware sensation. So I can feel floaty and fizzy and tipsy. Sometimes I can’t wait to legit get fucked up.

When I’m boozing it up on this side of my spectrum I feel guilty, ashamed and generally asleep while awake. Does this make sense? I feel like I’m walking through my days without a clear sense of actually living them. Sure, I’m alive. I’m breathing. I’m talking. I’m doing all the biological things required of me as a human, but I am not living. It’s a cloudy fog that I walk through when I’ve been drinking heavily for many days in a row. I don’t feel connected to anything but alcohol. I don’t want to engage with anyone or anything except alcohol. This is when I can and do become depressed. I’ve been told I may need medication. I refute this advice every time. The last thing I want is to take something that might make me feel ever more unbalanced than I sometimes already do. Even if said imbalance may only last a couple of weeks, I want nothing to do with it. So, I continue to drink. And drink some more.

The other side of my spectrum is when I stop the evening binges for a short time and come back to myself a little. Last night I drank one glass of wine. I did not get floaty or fizzy or tipsy. I was too tired to even try to get there. Instead I told myself, ‘you are going to enjoy this one glass and then be all done.’ And it actually worked. For last night.

Having only one glass allowed me to get some actual, real sleep. I woke up feeling my gratitude and life force returning. I woke up feeling optimistic for the day to start. I woke up feeling less like a piece of shit. I didn’t hear the anxious, hectoring Voice of Guilt in my head telling me I’m wasting my 30s and I’ll never lose weight if I can’t get out of bed in the morning to fit a workout in because I spend my evenings drinking myself into not being able to get out of bed bright and early to do something good just for me. I didn’t hear any of that. My head was blissfully…….clear.

I swear, it’s been ages since I’ve felt like this. I’ve been forcing myself to stay on the more destructive side of my spectrum of drinking. Forcing myself to feel that delicious buzz night after night. Telling myself that if I don’t I won’t be able to sleep and all my real emotions will come up and out of me and I won’t be able to handle it and I’ll realize how alone I really am and I will just plain fucking implode. But if I drink too much for weeks in a row, my sleep will be disturbed no matter what. I am depriving myself of sleep when I drink. And I know it. But still I drink. And around and around it goes. I’m an unwilling rider on the carousel of my addiction.

At least I feel good today.

At least I got solid rest last night.

At least for today I feel like myself. I feel peaceful. Unencumbered. Close to something good.

I want to hold onto this feeling and keep it with me when the next round of drinking wants to force its’ way down my throat. I want to hold onto the peace. I want to remember the clarity. I want to remember the depression and resentments evaporating like sweat on skin when a cool breeze tentatively floats by. Without those two vicious distractions I feel capable of anything.